Stories
Poetry
Instead of stained glass, give us an oil slick on the New Jersey turnpike.
Fiction
The beer and the kissing and the lateness of the hour had got to me.
Fiction
After the password was given, the question remained. My name.
Fiction
Now he was all out of dreams, out of rage, expectations, and money too.
First & Second Looks
Guillaumot knew his own creation would outlive the city of Paris.
Poem of the Week
It’d only take a slight shift to realize his new world isn’t a danger to him.
Poem of the Week
I don’t remember being born,
only the great dog
whose fur I clung to.
Poem of the Week
The fog’s sheen is a mirror: my mother sees the terrain of the future—
Poem of the Week
Near to closing, he’d flop down in the chair to count his moldy money.
Poetry
You can tell by the walls whoever lives here doesn’t want to be seen.
Poem of the Week
I found a lodestone & I went to the creek & I buried it in the creek bed
Poem of the Week
Translucent white prayer strings of her bonnet trailing in the air.
Story of the Week
“I don’t want to see these patch towns,” she said, raising her voice.
Story of the Week
This kind of childhood stuck with a person, twisted things up.
Poetry
The beasts and fowl and all manner of slithery thing can love like us.
Story of the Week
Que voulez-vous? I said.
Patisserie, she said and smiled.
Pastry, I said. Well, that’s predictable.
Fiction
I knew in the dream that I was a condor in the shape of a girl.
First & Second Looks
He moved quickly, as if running from what he had just done.
Poem of the Week
My world must not be made of brief encounters along the neat squares.
Poem of the Week
You must not be afraid of what waits after death, my past self says.
Story of the Week
We were lying on the grass, sharing a joint. The sun was radiant.
Poem of the Week
I am almost never standing in the ocean, not that way, not anymore.
Story of the Week
It will be years before the kids see us as real people, not just as parents.
Story of the Week
The last thing one settles in writing a book is what one should put in first.
Poem of the Week
Florence’s cobbled streets spoke like a broken wheel, a halfhearted
inferno.
